


there are many names in history but none of them are ours

by ricciardos



Series: spy au [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Fluff and Angst, LEWIS IS WAY TOO SELF SACRIFICING FOR HIS OWN GOOD, Lewis is M, M/M, Shooting, There's a happy ending!, bro i told myself i'd spend 1 hour doing this, charles is 007, i spent the past 3 hours, instead, james bond inspired, pierre is Q for reference, promises are made, some blood, the lewis and valtteri centric part of the spy au that no one asked for basically, this is THAT spy au cliche, val is his second in command, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24423754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricciardos/pseuds/ricciardos
Summary: note: this is part of my spy au series! this is in the same verse, but can be read as a standalone although some characters from the previous story are mentioned.(title taken from little beast, robert siken)-Valtteri doesn’t know when he started shaking. He sees it now in the slight tremor of his gun, pointed firmly at the spot between the man’s eyes.His eyes, against all odds, find Lewis’s.They always do.
Relationships: Valtteri Bottas/Lewis Hamilton
Series: spy au [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759654
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	there are many names in history but none of them are ours

[2014, Switzerland]

“I need you to promise me something.” 

It’s the early morning, and the snow is falling harder than ever outside. Valtteri is used to the cold, but he knows Lewis is more than thankful for the heated floor tiles. The safehouse MI6 has given them is really more than adequate, with state-of-the-art heaters installed in every panel of the house. If you press certain buttons, you even get coffee programmed to be made at whatever time in the morning you set it to be. 

Lewis insists on making his own coffee though. Sometimes, he makes Valtteri’s. 

Valtteri can’t really fathom for the life of him why Lewis would choose to opt for coffee that’s always a tad too milky, or much too sweet for a cold morning. All he knows is that if anyone could see the top 00 agents of MI6 huddled together in soft blankets, talking about their latest Swiss infiltration mission and the angle that could provide the best kills from a rooftop, they would probably mark it off as a bad Kingsman remake. 

(It’s not though.)

(Valtteri thinks this is as real as it gets.) 

Back to the conversation. 

He can feel Lewis’s eyes on him as Valtteri’s grip around the cup tightens. 

“We’re not having this conversation now.” Valtteri hopes the answer comes out as decisive as he wants it to be. 

He hopes his voice acts like a wall -- blocking off any further attempts to continue this inevitable conversation that he’s so desperately tried to run from.

“You know, you can’t always-”

There’s a pregnant pause in the room. The synthetic fire display MI6 has put up for the pretence of a cosy wooden cabin crackles in the background. 

Valtteri hates it. It makes his skin prickle. Both the sound, and the artificiality of it all. 

(He can’t bring himself to shut it off though.)

(Maybe in times of conversation like this, it’s best to have some background noise.)

“-don’t always know that we’re going to be okay. That in the field, we’re always going to win.”

Sure, Valtteri can’t know. But he can sure as hell pretend. 

He brings his gaze from the coffee that’s now gone cold. He can still see the faint streaks of milk that Lewis failed to stir in.

His stubborn blue eyes meet Lewis’s equally determined brown gaze. 

Valtteri would be lying if he didn’t find morally righteous Lewis a little bit of a turn on. 

Then again, they wouldn’t exactly be colleagues with benefits if he didn’t.

The conversation topic is soon abandoned onto the floor, along with Valtteri’s old hockey shirt and Lewis’s faded blue cardigan. 

-

[2015, Italy]

The next time this topic comes out, Valtteri can’t exactly shy away from it like last time. 

(Not that what he and Lewis did after the last time was anything for the faint of heart.)

Granted, when you’re engaged in a high speed car chase with the Giovinazzi Mafia, you don’t have many options. 

Valtteri lets out a curse as a bullet whizzes past the car, narrowly missing the window but smashing the rear view window instead. 

The absolute fuckers. This is his favourite car. 

In retaliation, Valtteri swiftly reloads his handgun and winds down the window just enough to aim a shot at the tyres behind him. 

Beside him, Lewis swerves to narrowly avoid a taxi and swears in colourful English that Valtteri barely understands.

Something about taking away licenses and sons of their mothers. 

In the absolute chaos of it all, Valtteri chuckles and winds the window back down as Lewis pulls into a quiet alley, the Giovinazzi far behind in their shitty fake Bond villain cars. Sleek, pretty, but at the end of the day lacking any real threat to VB and his MI6 issued vehicle. 

Sleek, pretty, lacking any threat. 

The first impression he had of Lewis. 

Until Lewis kicked his ass in front of the whole academy. 

Valtteri remembers it like it was yesterday. First ever sparring training, Lewis somehow managed to knock Valtteri’s legs out from under him with a swift kick and pinned him down by his arms from the whistle blow to Valtteri’s first breath.

Valtteri tries not to remember how close Lewis’s lips had been to his. 

How close Lewis’s lips would be to his thousands of times after that. 

“You look rattled, VB. Fast and Furious too much for you?”

Valtteri looks at Lewis in disdain. 

“Keep your thoughts to yourself, pretty boy.”

Lewis laughs, a twinkly sound that makes Valtteri smile against his own will. 

He watches as Lewis opens his mouth, for what he will later tell Valtteri was the comeback of the century. 

Valtteri thinks he could stay here forever. 

A life without the dangers and perils of MI6, the threat of losing the person you love most. 

Dangers that manifest itself in the form of Russian nuclear codes, the occasional torture chamber, and- 

Of course, a spy classic: being held at gunpoint.

This time though, danger manifests in a little red dot, dancing across Lewis’s forehead. 

Lewis hasn’t seen it, too busy talking Valtteri’s ear off about the latest NYFW show he wants to go to, debating about whether MI6 can get them backstage passes. 

Valtteri doesn’t need to think before he reacts. He’s been through years of field training, knows exactly what to do when there’s a sniper targeting you. 

What the manual _doesn’t_ cover, is what to do when a sniper is seconds away from taking out your boyfriend. 

Boyfriend- 

_Oh, for fucks sake VB they haven’t even had that conversation yet-_

Valtteri stops thinking. 

In a split second, he presses the silver button on the dashboard that activates the bulletproof covering on the window. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he dives across and pushes Lewis down, knocking Lewis’s head against the glove compartment but covering Lewis body with his own.

Better Valtteri than Lewis. 

(Valterri puts it down as others before self.)

(His gut thinks it might be something more, which is terribly inconvenient.)

“Ouch! Bottas what the FU-” Lewis’s voice is indignant, shocked-

The sound of the glass cracking on impact with the bullet shuts him up. 

“We gotta get out of here.” Valtteri pulls himself off Lewis, ignoring the streak of blood from impact with the glove compartment. 

Valterri knows they have exactly 30 seconds to pull out and drive away. The time it takes for the sniper to reload and take aim again. Between the ruthless shooting of the Giovinazzi cronies and this new lookout, the window can’t hold up against a second shot. 

He makes a mental note to talk to Pierre about bullet resistivity. 

Lewis slams on the throttle, and pulls out of the alley with a squeal, headed for MI6 headquarters in the heart of Italy. 

Beside him, Lewis is still breathing heavily. Bottas knows that inside, he’s beating himself up for not seeing it sooner. 

It’s quintessentially Hamilton -- to blame himself at every count, not wanting someone else to do it for him. 

“Thanks for saving my life, VB.”

_You would have done the same._

Valtteri’s response hangs in the air like a cliched spy novel. 

He chooses not to say it. The moment belongs to both of them, not just him. 

Others before self. 

“I think it’s fairly normal to want my boyfriend alive.” Valtteri says dryly, trying not to betray the emotion in his voice at what a close call it was. 

The unspoken promise hangs in the air like a pendulum, swinging back and forth between the two of them. 

Daring each other to take the plunge. 

To talk about death and love, in the face of a job that precedes others before self. 

Valtteri thinks he just might do it. 

“So, boyfriend, huh?”

Lewis’s voice is soft against the hum of the engine. Valtteri detects a hint of a smile.

Then again, in a crowded room, Valtteri would only ever listen to Lewis. 

-

[2016, Australia]

Over the course of the next few years, there’s been a reshuffling in the chain of command. 

Kimi, at 45 years of age, has decided to select his successor for M. 

He will be retiring the next year, with his second in command, Sebastian. 

Valtteri is sorry to see them go. Really. 

They were probably his favourite set of bosses. Demanding, ruthless at times, but kind. Always, kind. 

It’s a fine balance, but Vettel pulls it off with style and class. He walks the halls of MI6 in an old band T-shirt and jeans, tutting at first-year recruits who stay too late and offer them usage of the exclusive lounge. Before every mission, he leaves a bag of freshly baked cookies on a new agent’s desk, reminding them to be safe. Legend has it that at the last Christmas staff party, Vettel was the designated driver for almost half the Weapons department. 

Secretary to M, second-in-command at MI6. Driving a bunch of drunkards home. Bottas thinks the urban legend is too good to be true, but the mysterious twinkle in Vettel’s eye tells him otherwise. 

He wouldn’t underestimate Vettel at all though. First four years at MI6, he took home Best Field Agent. The youngest ever. 

Kimi carries that mystique even between than Sebastian, which Valtteri supposes makes him a fantastic M. In fact, come to think of it, Valtteri knows almost nothing of the man. 

(Apart from the fact that he’s Finnish, went off-the-grid for 7 years in Monaco undercover, and managed to take down the biggest global syndicate operation known to mankind.)

Of course, when all is said and done, he’s a little less sorry about them leaving when he finds out who the new M is going to be. 

Lewis gets the call when they’re in Australia, hunkered down in a run-down bar along the great stretch of Great Ocean Road. 

Valtteri watches as Lewis’s face splits into an expression of pure joy, the gap in his two front teeth endearingly exposed as he presses his palm into his eyes, unable to speak. Valtteri wants to cry himself when he watches Lewis’s shoulders start shaking from pure emotion, the torrent of excitement, fear, washing him all over at once. 

The youngest M, ever. The first man or woman of colour to be made M, ever. 

“I want you to be my secretary,” Lewis finally says when he has stopped crying. 

“Anything for you, pretty boy.”

Valtteri watches as lights in the club highlight some of Lewis’s dreads red. They’re bright, overwhelming, but not as overwhelming as the sheer pride Valtteri feels for him now. 

(Valtteri wonders when his emotions became so closely dependent on Lewis.) 

He stops wondering when they stumble out of the club at 3am in the morning, laughing and stumbling against each other to their Mercedes company car parked at the rail overlooking the sea.

The sky is dark, save the tens of thousands of stars that have now lit up the night. 

Valtteri thinks that nothing, _nothing-_

Could be any brighter than the smile that’s currently etched on Lewis’s face. And has been for as long as he can remember. 

Valtteri doesn’t think he could love someone as much as he loves Lewis now, his hand clutching onto Valtteri’s so tight that it’s already starting to feel numb. 

In a career built on deception and fraudulence, Valtteri thinks it should be illegal to love someone until your own heart is threatening to burst at the seams. 

Then again, maybe it’s a kind reminder from the universe that maybe, Valtteri Viktor Bottas too deserves a love that-

“Love of my life, you've hurt me, you've broken my heart and now you leave me-”

Valtteri stares as Lewis breaks out into an endearingly loud off-key version of his favourite Queen song. 

“Lewis, you’re going to wake the-”

“The who?”

Valtteri sobers up and realises that there’s no one around them for miles. 

Just him, Lewis and his offkey singing, and the reflection of the moon in his eyes. 

It’s all very noir. 

“The- the fish, Lewis!”

Lewis ignores Valtteri’s attempts to shut him up. 

Even amidst the sheer silliness of it all, Valtteri tries to remember how to breathe when Lewis looks him right in the eye and sings the next line. 

“Love of my life, can’t you see?”

All traces of the tequila shots have disappeared from his brown eyes now. 

It’s just him, Lewis and his offkey singing, and the reflection of the moon in his eyes. 

“Bring it back, bring it back, don’t take it away from me.”

“Because, you don’t know, what it means to me.”

Lewis’s voice is hushed. It’s hushed, against the big backdrop of Great Ocean Road. 

Valtteri wants to stay in this moment forever. One of the many, moments he wants to stay with Lewis forever. 

Two boys, crazy and drunk in love, spilling their feelings for what must be the tenth time onto the pavement, waiting for a reaction from the other. 

The pendulum appears again, swinging between the two of them. 

Waiting for them to take the plunge. 

Lewis does it, this time. 

“Will you promise me something?”

Valtteri knows. He knows that in that moment, Lewis could ask him anything and he would say yes. 

“That when the time comes -- if, MI6 falls, you will be by my side? That you will do as I say?”

Lewis’s voice trembles. Valtteri knows the alcohol has left his system, and this is the Lewis that he knows all over again. 

Others before self. 

But this time, it feels good knowing that they’re going into this together. 

Valtteri knows history. 

There are many names in history. 

Raikkonen, Vettel. Hamilton, Bottas. 

Their names will be etched into the records together. 

So that even those who live in a time after theirs know that with every dying breath, Valtteri’s heart is Lewis’s and only ever Lewis’s to break. 

-

[2020, London]

Valtteri should have seen it coming. 

He should have seen it coming from the moment records started disappearing from archives, agents started calling in more and more regularly with reports of a botched mission.

_They knew we were coming, said Charles. Barely made it out if it weren’t for Pierre._

_Mate, something’s up, warned Max as he watched from behind a glass shield. Valtteri could only imagine how he felt watching surgeons working round the clock on Daniel’s gunshot wound. The intel was compromised, and it nearly cost Daniel his life._

He definitely felt it when the minute hand on the clock hit 12, and gunshots exploded across the MI6 central department office. 

“Breach, we have a breach!” The warning system screamed and blared red as Pierre yelled into the announcement system, before getting knocked out by the butt of a gun. 

Valtteri was visiting the weapons department for an update that day. 

After the shots fired, he saw first hand how an agent had thrown himself in front of him, blocking him from the shot that he never saw coming. 

Others before self. 

The phrase mocked him in his sleep. 

Oh my god. 

Lewis. 

Grabbing the gun off the dead agent in front of him, Valtteri kicked down the glass door to an arena of hell. All around him, agents were swarming in. Some took up spots at the ceiling, some hunkered down in office cubicles ready to take aim, and some were engaged in fist to fist combat with the intruders. 

“Valtteri!”

Valtteri turned around to face Charles, a bloody streak down his forehead. 

(Valtteri tries not to think of how much it reminds him of Lewis, the day when they-)

“Where is Pierre?”

Valtteri debates telling him the truth. That Pierre is knocked out, probably lying in a pool of his own blood, something he doesn’t know if Charles needs to see-

“Tell me, where is Pierre? ” Charles is close to tears this time and he shoves Valtteri, hard. In spite of everything, Valtteri’s heart softens. 

If it was Lewis, he would be the same. 

“He’s at the counter, outside the conference room. Last I saw, he was knocked out, but-”

Charles doesn’t wait for him to finish, and runs off in the direction of the conference room. In Valtteri’s peripheral vision, he can see Charles shoot two intruders with clinical efficiency, but continues running. 

If they make it out of here alive, he hopes Charles and Pierre both make it. He might be a little bit of an idiot at times, but he’s a good kid. 

Valtteri’s legs carry him past bodies of fallen agents, faces which he doesn’t dare to look at lest he recognises any of them. Along the way, he sees Max and Daniel back to back, guns up and shooting anyone at the entrance of the corridor leading to Lewis’s office. 

There’s a wide gash on Max’s leg that’s bleeding. Across Daniel’s forearm, there are multiple slashes.

But they’re alive. 

If they died, Valtteri didn’t know how he would be able to live with himself.

Add it to the list of names where others before self keep him up at night. 

He’s running out of time. 

He bursts open the door where Lewis is-

Where he prays Lewis will be. 

Where he prays that Lewis hasn’t left to go and fight the good fight against all standard protocol, because that’s just the kind of man he is. 

Others before self. 

If they make it, Valtteri swears to god he’s going to change the unofficial slogan of what MI6 stands for. 

Valtteri feels his heart stop when Lewis is seated at his desk.

“Lewis, I-”

“Lewis can’t answer right now.”

Valtteri holds his gun up. 

Slowly, Lewis rises from his seat. A gash is sliced right across his stomach, bleeding into the white cloth of his custom-made suit. 

Lewis keeps his face set, but Valtteri doesn’t miss the way he winces and tries not to buckle at his knees. 

Behind him, a man in a balaclava holds a sleek gun to his head. 

“We want the records of the drug syndicate you brought down. Give it to me now, or I blow your friend’s head off.”

“Put the gun down, we can work this out-”

“Come one step closer and I’ll blow his head off anyway.” The man shakes Lewis’s shoulders, and Lewis’s face pales as the sudden movement reopens the wound. 

“We have agents right outside, you think you can get away with this?”

“You want to place bets on his life with how long it takes them to get in here? Before or after I press the trigger?”

Valtteri doesn’t know when he started shaking. He sees it now in the slight tremor of his gun, pointed firmly at the spot between the man’s eyes. 

His eyes, against all odds, find Lewis’s.

They always do. 

They will always find Lewis’s -- whether in a cabin in the Alps, or in the afterglow of sunrise at Great Ocean Road. 

_Shoot me._

The words are unmistakable. 

Valtteri hears them in his head. He sees every syllabus carve itself out onto Lewis’s lips. 

_Shoot me._

“Valtteri, you promised.” Lewis’s voice is barely a whisper, but it amplifies itself even against the background noise of gunshots and screams. The man presses against Lewis’s windpipe, and Valtteri knows that the man has effectively cut off the air circulating to his brain. His voice is strained against the thick arm wrapped around his neck, and Valtteri knows he doesn’t have much time left to make a decision. 

With a gun to his head, Lewis looks so small.

So small, fragile, and delicate. 

Like a wildflower. 

Sleek, pretty, lacking any threat. 

(Like those cars all those fucking years ago.)

There’s no fight in his voice anymore. It’s over. 

In his final breath of life, he has given Valtteri the permission to pull the trigger. 

Yet, with his permission, he has also told Valtteri to forgive himself for doing it. 

The audacity of Lewis to have himself tilting on the edge of death, only to always put Valtteri first. 

Others before self. 

Valtteri feels the hot tears at the corners of his eyes. He feels them burning even more as they streak down his face, the silent sobs now tearing through his throat. 

Valtteri focuses his attention on Lewis, and Lewis only. 

Even in a slow, burning room, this last moment is theirs. 

“You promised.” 

Lewis’s final words come out choked, strained against the assailant’s arm. 

_I love you._

Valtteri’s final words come out equally choked, but carry the same weight as they’ve always had. 

Lewis smiles that same, crooked smile that he did all those years ago in Australia. 

Valtteri’s fingers find the trigger. 

Then, all of a sudden, Lewis buckles. 

He closes his eyes, and falls. 

Down, down, down, down, down. 

Valtteri screams. 

A guttural scream that tears through his lungs. 

As he watches the bullet hit the man behind Lewis instead, brought into the path of the bullet as he stumbles with Lewis’s fall. 

-

Valtteri comes to in a hospital bed, surrounded only by pristine walls. 

Beside him, Lewis is asleep, his head resting on Valtteri’s arm. 

Lewis? 

Valtteri tries to move his hand, only to find it’s attached with tens of wires connected to a beeping machine. 

The sudden movement causes Lewis to stir. 

In a pristine white room, brown eyes meet blue. 

It’s the ten thousandth, maybe hundred thousandth time their eyes have met. 

Valtteri feels his heart pick up all the same. 

There are so many things he’s dying to say. He needs to say. 

_You’re alive._

_I took the shot._

_I promised._

_I love you._

_That the stars aligned for the second time in his life, the first time being when he got his ass handed to him by Hamilton on that dirty gym floor._

The pendulum appears as it always has, swinging back and forth between them.

Daring them to take the plunge. 

Valtteri does it this time. 

Life is too short to always put others before self. 

This time, he’s doing this for himself. 

“You’re a self-sacrificing, too good for this world bastard, you know that Hamilton?”

Lewis has tears in his eyes. The good kind. 

The kind that reflects the moonlight on a wide Australian road, the kind that appear when he got the call for the first time.

The kind that make Valtteri want to fall in love with him all over again. 

“And you’re someone who I can always count on to keep a promise, Bottas.”

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god this came out in sputters of 10 minute writing, then came out all at once in a 4 hour sit down
> 
> i am really quite proud of this, and i hope you all enjoy this as much as i had fun writing it! i was debating all the way until the last second about whether *it* should have happened and i had a whole funeral scene prepared, but perhaps it's better this way 
> 
> alternatively, i am too much of a coward to break my own heart like that 
> 
> kudos and comments always appreciated, and i'm @ricciardo-and-gang on tumblr :)


End file.
